Psyche Assassin
by AbaddontheDevourer
Summary: Response to The Modern Sorcerer's Challenge "Psyche" A Ruthless Harry Potter steps into Wizarding Britain, with only one goal, to protect his charge. However he is chased after by members of Magical Law Enforcement, hellbent on capturing him. How will Britain fare in the fact of a being who spits on the rules and does what ever he wants? Grey!Harry Ruthless!Harry Pairing Undecided.


Inspired by The Assassin's Brother by The Darkest Soul, The Raven's Anger by oso1991, and some recent talks going on in Caer Azkaban. This is also an answer to The Modern Sorcerer's challenge Psyche. Possible elements of Warhammer 40K as that's been on my mind recently.

* * *

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sound of leather and wood hit the marbled floor at a rhythmic pace.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.

The cadence was never broken as the teen continued his journey through the decadent halls. He wore a wide smile on his handsome face, framed by raven hair and accented with piercing green eyes.

Several of the bratok seeing his smile immediately froze before rapidly moving out of the way, their backs pressed against the walls as if making way for a King. No one dared to close within a meter of him.

His perfectly tailored 3-piece bespoke suit barely rustled as he moved, the only sound besides the clacking of his shoes was the slight jangle of the gold chain on his waist, and a squelching sound trailed after him.

A canvas bag dragged after him, something that no one questioned.

Approaching the heavy oaken doors flanked by a dozen bratok, he gave them a stiff nod, before stopping in front of the doors. One knocked against the sturdy wood, before announcing him in rapid Russian. A minute later the same bratok removed his head from the doorframe, before commanding in heavily accented English. "Remove any weapons."

Raising his brow he opened jacket revealing an array of daggers as well as a single pistol under his left arm. Slowly and deliberately he removed the weapons, glaring at the grunt who came forward to take them. "Those are more valuable than your life." He smiled. Just as he was about to take a step towards the door a hand shot out.

"All of them." The bratok who had entered the door said.

Huffing, he removed his jacket, the bullet and stab resistant garment going to the outstretched arm. Undoing the French cuff he removed a length of black string the width of his pinkie, the garrote joined the growing pile of weapons. After going over him several times with a metal detector he was cleared to enter.

Moments later the door opened to reveal an opulent room dominated by a massive rectangular table capable of holding 18 people comfortably.

At his entrance 16 pairs of eyes turned towards him, as a 17th pair merely raised a brow before glancing at the antique clock to the side of the room. Ignoring everyone but the man that sat at the head of the table, he walked forward keeping his eyes forward and level. When he was within arm's reach he dropped down to a knee and bowed his head.

The man simply held out his hand, and with practiced ease he kissed the ring on the hand before standing up and taking three steps back. "Mr. Valery."

"You're late." A gruff voice to his right said. Casting a glance he merely smiled patronizingly at the elderly right hand of the Boss in front of him.

"My dear man, you'll find that a wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to."

"So the disrespect is intentional?" The elderly man asked raising a single brow. "You were invited here as a courtesy to your teacher."

"Really?" He answered raising his own brow at the man. "And here I thought it was because of my razor wit and charming good looks." You could've heard a pin drop as the gathered capos stared at him in disbelief. "No?" His expression fell at the severe looks he was getting. "Tough crowd."

"Why are you late?" Mr. Valery asked, turning his piercing eyes towards him.

"My teacher and I hit a bit of a snag with the job you gave us." He explained, and seeing the disbelief on the Boss' face he reassured the man. "Nothing that we couldn't handle, but it took longer than we originally expected." It was then that the Boss noticed the crimson canvas sack.

"I see." The man answered, waving his hand forward for the young man to bring the bag up.

"A gift, Tovarishch." The young man grinned. "With this the Bratva will enter a new age."

Taking the ribbon off the top of the sack, he felt a moment of elation at the shock. Valery, head of the Russian Bratva, bore a striking resemblance to the decapitated head on the table.

"An age in which you will be nothing more than a footnote at the bottom of history." The young man smiled, snapping his fingers dispelling the illusion over the entire room. The altered perception he had been projecting, making everyone think that he was someone to trust implicitly was destroyed. "And thus the final act begins."

"What?" The right hand man of the Russian mafia asked.

"Who are you?" Mr. Valery demanded reaching for his pistol.

"Smért." With that he reaching behind him, drawing an obsidian knife and plunging it into right hand man's heart. Twisting the blade he dragged it across the man's chest before pulling it free and stabbing it through the Russian kingpin's hand.

"Stop." He commanded his voice instilling the command within every member of the room. Turning towards the other captains who had jumped to their feet, his emerald eyes meeting each man's, and after a few moments in unison each captain drew their sidearm, and all the while smiling began to shoot the man across from them. To them pain and pleasure were reversed and the more they were filled with lead the greater the ecstasy, the pleasure being enough to keep them standing as they emptied the entire magazine into their friend. However not even that was enough to keep them standing once all 20 rounds had been emptied into their forms, and they collapsed to the floor grinning dementedly at the high they were experiencing.

"Bene." The teen smiled, his voice now betraying him and showing his Italian accent. "Now then…what shall I do about you?" Once all the captains had been dealt with he turned back to the boss, and gripping the obsidian knife slowly dragged it through the hand, ruining it even if the man had access to immediate medical assistance.

The stoic Russian held in his screams as the young man carved up the appendage. "Tch. Here I was hoping for a bit more of a reaction." The teen clicked his tongue as he leaned over and reaching into the man's jacket removed his pistol. "Pistolet Tokareva obraztsa 1930 goda." The teen commented. Ejecting the magazine, he raised an elegantly sculpted brow at the paralyzed crime boss. "Incendiary…really? One would think that you were overcompensating for something." Slamming the magazine back home, he took a seat across from the man, and reaching into his jacket removed a cigarillo from a silver case. "I'm sure you have questions for me." He began, his hand diving back into his pocket and pulling free a zippo. "However I'm sorry to say that I won't be answering any."

Flicking his wrist he opened the lighter. "Frankly I'm not being paid enough to do this job, nor do I have the patience to explain in vivid detail what exactly I'm about to do." Placing a thumb on the flint wheel, he leaned in, the tip of his cigarillo posed over the eyelet. Spinning the wheel with the pad of his thumb, he immediately regretted being this close, as the fire flared to life larger than what he had expected. As expected the cigarillo ignited with ease but he could also feel the flames take the very edges of his eyebrows off. As calmly as he could he backed the lighter off, ignoring the smug look of the Russian gangster. "Seems I need to trim the wick a little." He observed, closing the lighter and placing it back in his pocket. "Oh well. Now that, that's that, here's what I'm supposed to say to you, straight from the Don himself." Clearing his throat, he tried his best to emulate the gruff tone of voice that the man favored. "Alyona, says hello." Raising the pistol he aimed it between the Russian Gangster's widened eyes. "And goodbye."

Crack!

The heavy pistol went unleashing its 7.62x25mm payload, the bullet blowing a hole straight through the man's head. "Probably shouldn't have missed all those birthdays." He casually remarked towards the corpse. "Aren't families great?" Dropping the barrier that surrounded the room, he placed the gun in the hand of the former right hand man, as he placed the obsidian knife in Valery's hand. Making sure not to touch the corpse, he gestured with his hand the body rigidly moving as he properly positioned the actors. Once that was done he had the man's second in command place the gun against his chest.

"Goodbye, Mr. Valery." The teen said tipping his nonexistent hat. With a snap of his fingers the gun pressed against the body fired one last shot, the sound drawing the guards outside to come rushing in, weapons at the ready.

"Ruki v vozdukhe!" One of the remaining Bratoks shouted. The rest were staring at the carnage, the devastation that was their entire upper leadership.

"I don't think so." The teen smiled, taking a single step towards them. Weapons came up as they took aim at his lithe form.

"Ruki v vozdukhe!" They commanded, fingers slipping from being held straight across the trigger guard to nervously touching the triggers.

His smile grew wider, terrifying the assembled gangsters as their deepest fears were forced to surface through their mind. "Boo."

Screaming fingers squeezed the triggers as quickly as they could, as firing pins slammed home, igniting the potent charge and releasing the bullet at varying speeds. Faster than even their fingers could pull the trigger a hand came up, the bullet colliding with an invisible barrier before hanging there motionless. Over and over the same trick was repeated as the bullets stopped before they were able to harm the teen.

This didn't stop the Bratoks though as fear dominated their mind, and it was only after they had expended every bullet in every magazine they carried on them did they stop. "They never learn." He gently chastised, reveling in the fear radiating from them. In front of him was every bullet that the Bratoks had fired at him, hovering silently, just waiting for the command to attack. "A pity." Tapping one of the bullets on the nose, it and every one of its partners reversed course and shredded the offending Bratoks in a lethal metal storm. Their grisly job done the bullets remained in the corpses, as he held out his hands, the weapons that he checked in with the Bratok earlier floating back eagerly, the spirit of each braying for blood, eager to be used by his artistic hands. Securing everything but his pistol, held loosely in his right hand, he continued through the Kill House. With his right hand he fired, his bullets never missing, always striking with fatal accuracy, and with his left he stopped any bullets that dared to strike against him. Those same bullets were then returned to their senders with all the fury of Artemis firing her bow. He sang a song to himself as he continued his grisly work, the barriers around the building preventing anyone from escaping. With their Leader and Captains dead, it was left to the middle-rank gangsters to rally the men in an attempt to kill him. These were the men that he killed first, his unerring aim putting a 5.7mmx28 bullet through their head. The rest he shredded with their own fired bullets, returning them with all the fury of a wrathful god. He wasn't here to do subtle, instead to send a message, and what a message it was. By the time he had worked his way back down to the ground floor, the walls had been painted red with blood, and it flowed on the marble floor like a river. Taking a look at the atrium, at the bodies that lay posed in death, he couldn't help but nod at his handiwork. With a final look he took a single step forward, his entire body disappearing into tiny motes of light.

* * *

To those who lived near the old hotel, gunfire was not something unique. Children grew up hearing it and by the time they grew to be teens they had been so desensitized to the sound that they could completely tune it out while carrying on a conversation.

However today was different.

Normally it would only be a single shot fired, or at most a single magazine. In the beginning when they had first been fighting for ground skirmishes between the various gangs was common and the night would be punctuated by the constant staccato of automatic fire. That hadn't happened in a long time…not since the Bratvas managed to solidify their position.

For the first time in memory the air was rent by the constant screams of gunfire, men and women screaming in Russian only for the sound to turn into a wet gurgle before ultimately being silenced.

When the sound of gunfire stopped those living near the hotel pulled themselves off the ground and went about their business, uncaring about the fate that befell the gangsters. They paid their tithe, and weren't harassed at all; in fact except for the monthly payment the two factions, criminal and law-abiding, completely ignored one another.

In fact it would be two days later before the people began to notice something off about the old hotel, namely the smell. From the Neighborhood Council a single brace soul was sent (read: forcibly volunteered), chosen for his skills (read: expendability) he was given the arduous task of knocking on the hotel doors and finding out what happened to their criminal overlords.

Cautiously approaching the hotel, he gently knocked on the door, hoping for someone to answer it. If they did then everything was fine, but if they didn't…well he didn't even want to think about that. His knocking opened the door, and the scent of death and shit assailed his nose, causing him to vomit on the curb. He saw them, the dead glassy eyes staring forever. Mouths screaming in pain and agony as they faced the entrance, looking as if they were fleeing from something. Their skin, what was left of it was grey and flaking off as maggots and insects burrowed through their bodies, each making a home in the single hole punched through each of their skulls.

"Shit." The man said rapidly backing out of the hotel and reaching into his pocket for his phone.

A half hour later a sergeant and 7 patrol officers of NYPD were knocking on the door, and after one look the man had one thing to say. "Fuck."

10 minutes later detectives from every division of the Organized Crime Control Bureau were on their way as the sergeant on scene was directing his men to set up a perimeter. Within 20 minutes detectives were combing the area, as the perimeter was secured and the sergeant began recording everyone on scene. 45 minutes into it a Detective Lieutenant had taken command, and was calling in several squads each consisting of a sergeant and 7 Patrol Officers. By this time forensics was on scene and so far the results made him want to scream in rage. The entire leadership of the Bratva, every made man, every captain and their Leader were all lying dead in the building. Whoever had done this had gutted the entire hierarchy of the Russian Brotherhood and it would be impossible for them to recover. The last and most important person to arrive had been the captain and when he was briefed on the situation both orally and verbally two thoughts dominated his mind.

Shit had hit the fan.

This would be a media circus.

And how right he was. The media in their infinite snoopiness had gotten wind of the scene just as the forensic teams arrived, and he had a line of reporters braying for answer in front of his mobile command center. Turning to his command staff he handed one of them the dreaded jacket that bore the stitching of Public Information Officer in bright eye catching colors and sent him out to the wolves.

His four Section Chiefs were arguing with one another, or in reality it was the Operations Chief arguing with the Logistics Chief and Finance/Admin Chief while the Planning Chief was reading a report and trying not to smile at his fellow Chiefs Antics. He was siding with Logistics and Finance, as he didn't see the need for an Air Ops unit when they were in the middle of a city and there would be no place for a chopper to land anywhere near them. Not to mention the fact that everyone on scene was dead and wouldn't need to be airlifted for medical evacuation anytime soon.

Still that didn't stop the man from trying to get a unit on standby.

What caught his eye however was the young woman that was sitting across from him. Officially she had been attached to his department as an observer, merely here to watch and give her opinions when asked, but he knew differently. She was just waiting, looking for a crime that breached their local jurisdiction, so that her and her Federal friends could swoop in and seize control of his cases.

And no that wasn't him being paranoid.

It had happened before to him and he had heard stories from other chiefs. He could almost see the gears turning in her head as the facts of the case were gone over. When they mentioned that it had been the Bratva decimated he could see the lightbulb going off in her head as she reached into her grey jacket that she wore over a similarly colored dress that reached down to her knees.

He already knew what was going to happen as she pulled out a bi-fold wallet and with a flick of her wrist revealed the gold shield that he was dreading. "As this case has repercussions that reach across state lines we will be taking over."

"On what basis?" The Captain asked, trying to keep the case within his jurisdiction.

"Why, my Captain?" The young woman said almost patronizingly. "This case deals with the Bratva. You know the Russian Mafia infamous for having their fingers in criminal pies across the continental US. The same ones who are responsible for bringing in a good amount of the drugs that are circulating the streets now, as well as running prostitution rings and human trafficking. Now someone's gone and gutted the entire organization's Eastern Leadership, I don't know about you but another crime war will probably be breaking out as the various other gangs squabble over their territory." She shook her bushy head, the brown locks cascading down her face. "I expect the change of command to be given both verbally as well as written, within the hour."

Before he could protest she continued. "Don't worry though Captain, we'll make sure to keep you and your…officers…appraised of the situation." The smirk that she had spoke volumes, as she got up from her seat. "Continue securing the perimeter and interviewing the witnesses. Have forensics document and photograph every inch of the scene."

Just as she was about to move towards the door, a forensic technician opened the door, tablet in hand. The man didn't even have a chance to speak before the tablet was ripped out of his hands, and the young woman stared at the picture with a cruel and animalistic smile. "Aquila." She said, her voice laced with excitement.

She threw her head back and laughed as she slapped the tablet back into the techs hand and walked out of the Mobile Command Center.

"Who was that?" The startled technician asked.

"Hermione Granger, the absolute worst agent that the Feds could've stuck us with." The Captain replied grimly, staring at the golden eagle figure that was on the tablet.


End file.
